


"Hey ... what's wrong with your face?"

by ariaadagio



Series: Aria's Tumblr Prompts Game No. 1 [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Dialogue prompts, F/M, Fluff, Kinda, Lucifer and Chloe seem to be incapable of a date that ends well, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, no plot just date, really I don't know what came over me, so I fixed it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 00:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19262182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariaadagio/pseuds/ariaadagio
Summary: Years after the events of the S4 finale, Lucifer and Chloe finally go on a successful (ish) date.  Response to the dialogue prompt, "Hey ... what's wrong with your face?"





	"Hey ... what's wrong with your face?"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pellaaearien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pellaaearien/gifts).



> So, this was a tumblr writing prompt for the dialogue line, "Hey ... what's wrong with your face?" and the character Chloe, that got sliiightly out of hand and became an actual short story. But, hey. Isn't it fun when that happens? Hope you enjoy :D

Beatrice sits at the dining-room table with Maze and what feels like forty-seven different shades of black nailpolish, all spread across the tablecloth. Her "goth" phase, or so Beatrice claims. My, how she's grown in his absence. His heart constricts.

"Definitely the Matte Vinyl," he chimes in as he peers over her shoulder at the available choices.

Beatrice regards him, nose wrinkling. "Not the Liquid Leather?"

"I like the Licorice," says Maze.

"I think that's a spot too glossy," he tells Beatrice before nodding toward Maze, "and that one's so glossy it might as well be an oil spill in twilight."

"What," Maze says with a shrug, "I like shiny shit."

"Oh, I  _know_ , my dear. Nothing wrong with that." He turns back to Beatrice, glancing at her lipstick, which looks more like black paint than makeup. "But Matte Vinyl is, well, matte. Feels more thematically relevant, wouldn't you say?"

"So, how do I look?" calls a soft voice from the top of the stairs before Beatrice can answer, and all eyes shift in that direction.

His fingers tighten against the back of Beatrice's chair, making the old, polished wood groan and crack in his grip. Seven earth years, five earth months, twelve earth days, eighteen earth hours, twenty-seven earth minutes, and forty-eight earth seconds after the Father Kinley debacle, Lucifer finally gets to see Chloe wear the pleated red sheath dress he bought for her. Not that he's been counting or anything.

"Wow, Mom!" says Beatrice.

" _Bangin_ ' hot," adds Maze with a low whistle.

"Really?" Chloe says.

"Well, I'd sure hit it."

Blushing, Chloe descends to the ground floor and gives them a slow twirl. She's flat-ironed her hair and pulled it into a sleek ponytail, showing off her long neck and diamond stud earrings. The satin dress gleams in the dim lighting, as glossy as the Licorice nailpolish. She pads across the rug and stops in front of him, peering up with wide, hopeful eyes.

All at once, his mouth goes dry.

The passing years have added some lines to her face. A few strands of gray are filling in at her temples. But ….

"So, what do you think?" she says, the words quiet. Hesitant.

For a moment, he can't speak.

She bites her lip. "Not good?"

He gives himself a shake, clearing his throat as he steps away from the chair. "I … I didn't even know you'd …."

"I found it when I was going through your shirts. After you left. Ella told me what it was for."

"Ah."

"So … is it …?" She runs a nervous finger along one of the pleats. "I mean …."

"You look  _beautiful_." He swallows. "No …  _perfect_."

Her lips twitch slowly into a pleased grin, one that lights up her whole face and makes his body hum with satisfaction. "Thanks," she says, pressing closer. "You look really good, too."

"Well, I should say so," he snarks without bite. He wraps his arms around her, a reflex, like a Venus flytrap, and he hurts, thinking about how hard he had to fight to be in this place. Now. Not an ending, at last, but a prelude.

"So, are you guys gonna get a room," Maze says a little too gleefully, "or should I make some popcorn to accompany the main event?"

"Ew," adds Beatrice with an animated shudder. "Gross."

And Lucifer laughs. "Shall we, darling?" he says, taking a step backward, but only to hold out his arm.

Chloe interlocks her elbow with his and says, "Yeah, let's go."

* * *

They see a Broadway show at the Los Angeles Theater. Some new Andrew Lloyd Webber production Lucifer missed the makings of while he was gone. He got them the best seats money could buy, close enough to count the nose-hairs on the oboe player in the orchestra pit. And he tries to watch the show. He tries. But he finds he can't focus on it, and instead watches her. Watches Chloe. Just … watches.

"You keep staring," she says bashfully as the lights come on at intermission.

And all he can say is, "Afraid it can't be helped. For me, it's … been a while."

Her embarrassment fades behind curiosity. "How long was it for you?"

"Too long," he hedges.

"But …."

The program crinkles as he closes his fist around it. "Chloe, please. I desire to be  _here_." Gazing at  _her_. "Not there." Gazing at nothing but ash and misery.

She nods, leaning against him. "You  _are_ here," she replies, the words just a little rough and quivering. She nuzzles his throat and settles against the lapel of his suit jacket. He closes his eyes, relishing the moment like a pianist at his first symphony.

* * *

He takes her to Providence — not the best name, in his opinion, but definitely the best purveyor of fine caviar in Los Angeles — to wine and dine her. Mostly wine, at first. As the bottle gets low, and their cheeks rosy, the sharpness of his recent memories fade. His limbs feel heavy. He undoes the top button of his shirt with uncoordinated fingertips and then leans against the white tablecloth on his elbows. Rude, but ….

"You're staring again," she says.

"So, stare back at me," he tells her, grinning. "I won't mind."

"That's  _right_ ," she says, snapping her fingers. She scoots her chair closer to the table edge. The candlelight flickers, lighting up her eyes with mischief. "I let you get tipsy, don't I."

"Isn't it just so."

"You're pretty fun when you're tipsy, you know."

"Darling, I'm  _always_ fun," he crows, and she laughs. He likes the sound of her laughter. Such a pleasant change. "I had a Hell loop, you know."

Her smile drips away. "Oh?"

He nods. "Every morning when I woke up, you weren't there."

Her expression breaks like glass.

With a languid blink, he frowns. He … probably shouldn't have said that. Not on a date. But the wine. And her company. And he feels more relaxed than he has in millennia. "It's all right," he says. "I'm all right. I'm free, now." At last.

"I'm really glad," she says, the words constricting.

"Yes." They stare at each other across the too-wide table. Something tugs at him. Like an invisible tether. The urge to shove everything away — table, wine, waiter, restaurant — and close the gap, to never let anything or anyone else come between them again, is almost overwhelming. Almost. He clears his throat, forcing his attention to the dinner menus they still haven't touched. "We should eat, soon, or the staff might be cross."

"For the amount you already spent on wine, I sure hope not."

"That bottle was a trifle."

"Wasn't for  _me_." She frowns. "I mean … I'd be happy with wine in a box."

He grimaces. "Darling, wine in a box is worse than the wine they serve in  _Hell_."

"They serve wine in Hell?"

"Nope," he says, popping the "p."

Her eyes are twinkling as she replies, "You are  _such_  a wine snob."

"Remind me to take you to an actual wine tasting, next time. Perhaps we can fix that woefully errant opinion of yours."

"Next time?"

Next time.  _Next_ time. The idea makes his chest ache almost as much as the hope burning like fire in her tone. "Tomorrow, if you like."

"I would," she says, nodding. "A lot."

"It's a date, then," he says with a laugh, and he picks up the menu. "Oh, the spot prawns look divine."

* * *

The prawns are indeed divine. The lemon and rosemary intermingle with the delicate meat, producing art in bitesize form, and conversation in heaping portions to boot. In the leadup, and between delicious forkfuls, they've talked.

Mostly of superficial things. But it's lovely just to hear her speak, and he revels in every syllable. Chloe's been reading. A lot. She's just finished one of the newer translations of  _the Iliad_  and is plunging into  _the Odyssey._

"Would you like a copy of _the Cypria_?" Lucifer offers. "I've the original. I could translate it for you."

She gasps. "I thought that was lost!"

"Not to me."

Much to her wide-eyed awe.

Dan has been promoted back to full Detective. Dr. Linda has taken a new teaching position at Yale. Charlie and Amenadiel moved with her. Beatrice's latest whim is to become an artist, and Chloe's been researching extracurricular art classes for her, in hopes of helping with the college applications that are coming all too soon.

"Do you have any suggestions?" Chloe wonders.

"I'm afraid I've been away far too long to be current on such things."

"Oh. Right."

His tongue is tingling, the room is spinning, and he can't breathe. "How peculiar," he chokes out. But … she does look … quite beautiful. The conversation has been stimulating. Heartwarming, in places. And he is most  _definitely_  in love. "Is this what it feels like?"

"What what feels like?" Chloe glances over the edge of the dessert menu at him, eyes widening. "Hey … what's wrong with your face?"

"My face?" he croaks. His hands fly to his cheeks, almost unbidden. He expects to feel the rough, scarred edges of his other visage, somehow, but … instead, his skin seems … almost too smooth. "What …?" He rises to his feet, swallowing again, again, again. Except he can't. He can't swallow. "Oh, dear."

"Lucifer!"

He falls to the ground in a heap.

His heartbeat is thunderous hoofbeats in his ears. The Horsemen, riding.

Everything blurs.

Then … nothing.

* * *

"I'm …  _what_?" he wheezes as the sound of his EKG monitor bleeps in the quiet.

"Allergic to shellfish, apparently," says the doctor, as he checks Lucifer over with a too-cold stethoscope. "Probably one of the worst reactions we've seen in a while."

"But … how?"

"Oh, no," says Chloe from somewhere to the left. " _No_. That isn't  _fair_!"

The doctor smiles. "It just happens, sometimes. Body calls it quits after one exposure too many. Not to worry! Epinephrine is a wonderful thing."

"But I'm the bloody Devil! The former King of Hell!"

"Well, apparently the former King of Hell is allergic to shellfish," says the doctor with a shrug. "We'd like to keep you for observation, if that's okay."

Lucifer lifts an arm experimentally. His muscles feel like a wobbly plate of gelatin. "I don't think I could get up right now if I bloody tried."

"Well, that's all settled then. I'll check back in an hour or two."

Lucifer's sense of the room falters. Like someone places a running faucet between his brain and his ears and eyes. He has a vague sense of Chloe scooting closer as the doctor moves away, but the spinning room won't quite settle. The distant snap-buzz of the little cubicle's fluorescent light fills the empty spaces in his brain with much too much.

"How peculiar," he observes again.

"Lucifer?"

"Hmm?"

"I'd leave, but … what if that only makes it so they can't treat you?"

Too much to process. "Please, don't leave."

She climbs into the tiny bed with him, careful to avoid the EKG leads pasted to his chest, and the itchy intravenous line snaking into his wrist. She briefly wraps an arm over his hospital Johnny, hugging him close, and then raises her palm to stroke his face. A hum of pleasure fills the back of his throat as her thumb rasps against his cheekbone.

"Definitely not my Hell loop, anymore," he murmurs without opening his eyes.

And he sleeps. For a little while.

* * *

"I'm so sorry," Chloe fusses at him as he totters into her passenger seat the next morning.

He frowns, watching her as she steps around the front of the car. "Why should you be sorry?"

The driver's side door wrenches open. "Well, apparently my miraculousness screws up more of your invulnerability than we thought. Or, well, at least  _I_ thought." She collapses into her seat with a sigh, and her seatbelt clicks with what he can only describe as vengeance. "Some welcome home, huh."

"Not to worry. It only means I can't cook you lobster." Shame, that. But not the end of the world, either literal or figurative.

She slumps against the steering wheel, pressing her forehead against the 12 o'clock position. "Did someone make us a bullet-point example for the dictionary definition of Murphy's Law or something? Does your dad not want us to date? I mean, this is just …."

The leather seat creaks as he turns to her, his knee pressing into the gearbox. "Darling, how on  _earth_  can you call us an example of Murphy's Law right now?"

"How can you  _not_?"

"Well, I'm here, yes? Finally?" he says. "So,  _something_  went right."

Her fingers clench around the steering wheel. "I just wanted to have a nice time with you. You  _just_  got back."

"Well, I had a  _lovely_ time with you," he says softly. "Melodramatic collapses aside."

She flops her head to the right and peers at him over the top of her bicep. "Really?"

"When do I lie?"

She sits up straighter, pulling her fingers through her hair as she takes a breath.

"And we're going to a wine tasting, yes?" he continues.

"Well, yeah …."

"And I'm not bloody well allergic to that; we've just tested it."

"That's … true," she says, nodding slowly.

"So, we'll have another go tomorrow, after I've completed my convalescence," he assures her. "We're not an example of Murphy's Law. We're simply—" He searches for a word, brightening when he thinks of a perfect one. "—percolating until done."

Her eyes narrow. "Percolating, huh."

He grins. "The best wines do take a while to bloom, you know."

Her head tilts, and she regards him for a long moment with wet eyes. "I'll take your word for it. Snob." And then a beautiful smile quivers onto her face.

"Now, who's staring?" he says.

"Well, you said you wouldn't mind."

"Of course, I don't," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss her. He hovers close enough to feel her warmth against his face. "Did you brush your teeth?"

"What?"

"Wouldn't want a spot-prawn relapse."

"Oh." She swallows. "Yes. A bunch." She gestures to her fleece tracksuit. "That's why I changed out of the dress, too."

"Good," he says, and then he presses his lips to hers, refusing to wait anymore.

She's … soft. And she tastes vaguely of mint. Her fingertips curl around the nape of his neck and scrunch into his hair.

"I'm so glad you're here," she whispers, breathing softly against him. "I've missed you. I  _love_  you."

He nuzzles her. "And I you."

A pleasing shiver chases down his spine at the words, and he kisses her again.

And again.

The percolating, he thinks, is definitely done.

At long last.

~finis~


End file.
